Magic and Wonder
by Ember Koramin
Summary: Kind of tells how important these thing are in our lives, even though many forget them when they get older. An old dream, or a young dream, depends on how you look at it.


_a new **Author's Note**: Well, this is my first story to put in this area, but i don't really now why I wrote it. I was just terribly depressed (middle of summer thing) Anyway, I just reread Ramadan, and got to thinking about the city, and a dream I used to have when I was little. This was actually my dream, much embelleshed of course, since my mind's all fuzzy and I can't remember details. It's mostly just the feel of it that I can remember, but I got the urge to write about it and here it is. Hope you enjoy. Reveiws make my eyes smile!_ XD

Throughout the land of the Tsourne there were many wonders to behold. It was a country etched into the fabric of the land, living as easily in its own spirit as a human takes breath. The spirit of the land melded with that of its children, and the two could not be separated when looked at as a whole. The land gave life to the people, and the people were the land.

In those days the air was clear and the earth was not yet tainted by the blood of the innocent or the cries of the despairing. Sweeping over the hills were vast forests; trees older than cities and with memories more ancient than the wisest priesthoods. Ferns tall enough to touch the clouds grew amongst vines and flowers painted in the colors of the sun and colors darker than that of the new moon.

Rivers ran over the endless plains, rushing and frothing with snowmelt from the high mountains, oh the mountains, surging higher than mortal man can breathe, reaching for the sky, lost amid the stars at night, their waters mingling with the sands of the great western desert before coming at last to the sparkling sea.

The cities of that time were marvelous to see. In the high northern mountains was a city all made of whitest marble and polished obsidian, stairways and arches leaping over cliffs and spanning chasms, streets themselves running almost vertical in places. The fountains of this city played continually, tapped from the deep core of the highest peak where the great river Thanat sprang. This city was of learning, of ancient orders, of libraries filled with the knowledge of civilizations that were dying when the hills had just settled in their foundations. From the corners of the earth citizens came seeking information and enlightenment. Its people called it Betani, and it was a city of the past and of the present.

There was a city in the western Remori desert, climbing high over the vast golden sands that would kill the living who dared linger too long in its light. Cool grey slabs of rock covered many of the streets; great indoor market places and fields provided life to the wasteland. Mausoleums and grand monuments crowned the man made hills of old, while deep, cool catacombs reached far beneath the streets. Clothed in darkness, many of the passageways had not been visited by living presence for thousands of years. This was a city of warriors, of armies, of great generals and noble histories, serving as a refuge in the vast dryness, serving as hope whenever they were needed. The desert named it Osvilad, and it was a city of the dead and of the living.

There were two sister cities in the south, where the vast greenery of the Emerald Forest met the sparkling Endless Sea. Alike to each other, yet as different as the sun and moon they were, the land more than anywhere else becoming part of them. The forested halls of the one were hundreds of feet tall, and springs ran throughout like the veins in a hand. Nut husks as large as houses served as dwelling places, as well as scintillating streets hung up in the trees, reaching down within them to create wide towers. Glowing domes of clear mother-of-pearl connected in multiple layers under the waters of the second, and coral passageways inlaid with thousands of shells covered great distances of ocean floor. These were cities of music and inventions, of discovery and healing. They were called Duma and Selan, and they were the cities of life and magic.

On the edge of the gigantic eastern bay there was a city sandstone and gold. Brightly painted palaces and great houses climbed the many layers of the site, containing schools and menageries, trading halls and dwelling places of the noble and poor alike. Traders cam here from all over, and news traveled as fast as the wind. Towers of gold and doors of fire were common, though none the less beloved for it, and tales from far off places were drawn there like flowers to the sunlight. Ships clad in silver, ships clad in polished wood, ships carrying cargos of precious silks and rare spices were to be seen in the ancient harbor. It was a city of traders, of rulers, of roads converging and diverging. It was called Karad, and it was a city of stories and wonder.

The land was of magic and life, of wonder and learning, battles won nobly and stories endless. Warriors adventured in far lands and street urchins became kings, and djinn and fairies could be found if the right person had a good heart and just looked. It was wondrous.

Starlight drifted through the window glass of a small, plain house, and a young child rolled over in her sleep and dreamed.


End file.
